Strange Bedfellows
by Renee2939
Summary: Rated for language. Set post NFA. Necessity makes for strange bedfellows. Completed. For now.
1. Strange Bedfellows

**Story Notes:** Rated for language. Set after NFA. Angel POV.  
**A/N:** In the dictionary "strange" is defined as: unexpected, hard to explain, and difficult to understand. "Bedfellows" is defined as: somebody who becomes paired with somebody else and -in the archaic form- somebody who sleeps in the same bed as somebody else. Apologies to all for any grammatical errors or just plain wrongness. Feedback is always appreciated.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Never gonna be mine. Not making a profit here either. 

**Strange Bedfellows**

Dear God in Heaven, he was tired. He just wanted to curl up for a couple of months and sleep, blessed sleep. But oh no, here was Spike yammering on in the background about something or other. Why? Why did he seem to be stuck with looking after them both? Spike just prattled around making snarky comments all the time while _he_ did all the work. He found them shelter. He found them food. He was the one going completely stark raving mad! If Angel didn't know he was damned for his past crimes before, he did now. This must be some kind of karma thing coming back to bite him on the ass. And why was Spike still trailing after him? There was nothing holding them together anymore. They weren't close. They weren't friends.

So, okay, Spike does have a soul now and he was trying to do good. He was the first one to jump on board with taking out the Circle of the Black Thorn. But Angel reasoned that Spike just liked to kill things and so that one didn't count. Except, Spike was also there with him in the alley when he could have gotten a running head start on Wolfram & Hart's payback.

It took Angel about twenty minutes of brooding, and Spike was still nattering on about whatever, but he finally decided that it was one of the great mysteries of his life, or un-life. Spike was just there. It was Fate giving him a big, fat finger. Wherever he was, Spike was sure to turn up sooner or later. He couldn't even get on a submarine at the bottom of the ocean during World War II without running into Spike! Even after Spike _died_, Angel couldn't get away from him! And if that wasn't proof that the Powers That Be had a sick sense of humor he didn't know what was. When he finally went back to Hell, Spike would probably be there waiting with a gift basket, or maybe hot pokers and a grin.

He couldn't hold Spike's unsouled past against him, though, or he would have to hold it against himself. Drusilla had made him a vampire but, Spike was right, Angelus had made him a monster- taught him to truly revel in the kill. Maybe that was one of the things that made it hard for Angel to be around Spike. Or it could just be Spike's sparkling personality. However, Spike _was_ trying to atone for his sins, albeit in a completely Spike-like way that was as annoying as hell. Angel could and did, however, hold Buffy against him. Oh and wasn't that just the visual he needed when he was trying to go to sleep?

Maybe he could suggest, in a completely off hand way, that Spike would be better off on his own. No, that would just make Spike stick around longer because he just loved getting under the skin of 'the Great Poof.' And just when had Angel ever earned that particular nickname? Well, so, ummm, there was that one time... No! Not going to go there.

Anyway, all that was in the past. There was no reason that Spike should be taking up most of the bed in a cockroach-infested motel room, that Angel had paid for, on the edge of nowhere. What the hell was he watching anyway? Shouldn't he be sacked out and hogging all the covers? No, wait, Spike hasn't been up half the night hunting, has he? Spike hasn't spent all of the morning and most of the afternoon worrying about what they were going to do next. Spike has been sitting on his ass watching daytime television. And alright, Spike still couldn't move very well and he _had_ almost gotten his arm ripped off saving Angel from that giant, three-horned, acid-spitting demon; but that was still no excuse for laziness. He could've picked his towel up from the bathroom floor, or at least mopped up the water, and he could've cleaned up the motel room a little. Spike wasn't hurt that badly. Right? No, Spike was fine. He was just playing it up so he wouldn't have to do anything other than watch TV all day and night.

What were they going to do? Right, and now it was back to 'they', wasn't it? Angel didn't have any more money and, of course, none of his company credit cards worked. Wolfram & Hart had somehow frozen his bank account so his ATM card was useless. Spike _never_ had any money.

They had been hopping from one motel to another trying to stay in front of the bounty on their heads. So far it was working, but they couldn't keep it up much longer. Spike had been getting slower and slower and Angel wasn't able to find enough wildlife to feed both of them properly. They were weak and getting weaker every day.

So, back to the question of-

"Oi, Peaches! Lookit this." And now here we have Spike talking to him. Again.

"What, Spike?" He probably wouldn't give up until he got whatever response he was looking for anyway.

"Antiques Road Show is on. Have you ever seen it?" And now here we have Spike pointing at the small TV bolted to the dresser that loomed across from the bed. Deep, calming breath. Breathe in, breathe out. Great, now Spike had him breathing. Again.

"Spike? I'm trying to sleep here." Close eyes and play dead.

"No you weren't. You were brooding with your eyes closed. Whole different thing." Why couldn't he kill Spike again? Oh yes, Spike had a soul now and Spike was trying to do good now and Spike couldn't defend himself if Angel just reached over and tore his throat out. Now there was a visual he could go to sleep with.

"I said I was _trying_ to sleep. I might actually _get_ to sleep if you would shut the TV off and stop talking to me." There. Firm authoritative voice... which, of course, never worked when dealing with Spike.

"Angel, you've done this every night. You hunt, you come back to the motel, you curse at me, you shower, you curse at me, you lie down, you brood, you curse at me, you brood some more, and you _don't_ go to sleep. At least, if you're going to be up anyway, you could talk to me." _What?_

"Spike, we don't have anything to say to each other." Complete refusal to open eyes. Again, firm voice with no hint of annoyance. This had to count towards his penance. It had to.

"We bloody well do! We could talk about how you're running yourself to the bone. We could talk about what we're gonna do when we get thrown out of this rat hole. We could talk about what happened. We could talk about you leaving me behind. Move faster on your own. We could-"

"Spike, shut up. I'm not leaving you behind." Wait. He wasn't? When did that happen? He would _love_ to leave Spike behind. He _dreamed_ about leaving Spike behind.

"I don't want to talk right now Spike. I want to sleep." Uh oh, there goes the sound of the TV turning off and now he can feel Spike looking at him.

"You might be able to sleep if you would talk about it." Soft voice. Concerned? No. No no no. He was not going to have a heart-to-heart talk, with Spike of all people.

"I've gotten all of my friends killed and I'm still here. We're running a losing race with painful death; that is, if we don't starve to death before that demon horde catches up to us. I haven't slept in days and would just like to go to sleep. That's all I have to say. So would you please, for the love of God, SHUT THE HELL UP!" Maybe a little more anger there than he thought. Didn't mean to shift into game face, but he was not going to do this. Spike could goad him all he wanted but Angel was not going to do this. Not here, not now, and not with Spike.

"You're making a complete sack of yourself. They knew what they were getting into. We all agreed to do it, Angel. It's not your fault you didn't die with them." And now here we have talk show wisdom from Spike.

"Well, that just makes everything all better Spike. I don't know why we didn't have this little talk days ago. Now, if you don't leave me alone I'll tie you down and stuff one of your dirty socks in your mouth. Okay? Does that work for you? Because it's looking pretty good to me right now." It was. He could picture it perfectly: Spike tied to the bed, Spike gagged, Spike helpless, Spike no longer prodding at him. Maybe Angel would blindfold him, too. Then Spike would stop looking at him like that; almost like he was worried about him. Why would Spike be worried about him? Angel was the strong one.

Finally, yes, thank you, Spike has shut up. If he had a pen, or a calendar, he would write this down. Except, now Spike was sulking really loudly. He was breathing. Why was Spike breathing? He doesn't need to breathe.

Spike tosses. Spike turns. Spike bunches up his pillow. Spike throws his covers off. Spike sighs. Spike tosses. Spike pulls his covers back on. Spike turns. Spike makes some strange noise in the back of his throat.

"We could call Buffy." Very, very soft voice.

"No." Drop it. Drop it right now.

Spike sighs. Spike tosses. Spike straightens out his pillow. Spike turns. Spike flips completely over. Spike gasps. And now here we have Spike bleeding. Again. But he _has_ gone completely still. Maybe if Angel just pretended he didn't notice? No, Spike knows he can smell the blood. Angel's supposed to be one of the good guys; he can't let Spike bleed to death right beside him. Can he? No. No damn it, he can't.

Bedside lamp goes on. Open the nightstand drawer. Don't look at Spike yet. Take out the supplies they had managed to steal along the way. What will he need? Quilting thread picked out from a hotel comforter, pieces of a sheet torn into strips, alcohol, yellow rubber cleaning gloves, two clean white hand towels, a needle, a butter knife, and duct tape.

"Leave it. It's fine." No, it was not fine. It hadn't been fine for awhile now. What the hell were they going to do?

"No. You'll get blood all over the sheets. I'm not sleeping on bloody sheets. Sit up." Pick off the duct tape and carefully unwind the makeshift dressing from his shoulder. Do _**not**_ show any expression at all. "This still isn't healing right and you've torn some of the stitches out."

"Haven't been able to feed properly, have I? Can't walk to the shower and back without getting dizzy now. Think that acid-secreting demon did me in after all. I'm bloody useless. You should just leave me here." Completely ignore him while getting supplies set up. Watch the hands Angel, keep them steady. Don't think about it.

"I'll have to wash it out again before I re-stitch it. Don't move." Hey, authoritative voice was back. Not a wavering note to be heard. Good job, Angel.

Move up on the bed beside and slightly behind Spike. One leg goes behind his back; one leg goes across his legs. Bare feet hook together. One arm goes across Spike's chest and one hand towel gets pressed just under the gapping skin. Pull him back. Fold up the ragged rubber gloves and shove them in Spike's mouth. Try not to enjoy that part too much. Smirk as his eyes flash. There's the old Spike. Uncap bottle of alcohol.

Steady now. This was the hard part.

Pour a steady stream of alcohol directly onto the bloody tear. Lock muscles. Try not to hear the muffled roaring. Keep him still or the other stitches will tear. Tip the bottle again. Let Spike latch on to the arm across his chest while he screams. Wait until he stops straining. Mop up the blood, alcohol and pieces of rotten flesh with the hand towel. Try not to notice the smell or that Spike has tears in his eyes and blood at the corner of his mouth.

Let muscles relax. Move out from behind Spike and lower him gently to the bed. Thread needle and set it aside. Take both hand towels and walk to the bathroom. Angel was glad, for once, that vampires don't have reflections. He doesn't think he could look at himself right now. Run the water until the room fills up with steam. Wet the clean hand towel; let the other soak. Take a deep breath.

How much longer was he going to have to do this? How many more times before he just decided to stake Spike in his sleep? It would be kinder in the end, wouldn't it? But does he mean kinder for him or kinder for Spike? He doesn't know the answer to that and that's why he won't ever do it.

Walk back to the bed and pick up the butter knife. Pour a little alcohol on it. Straddle Spike's legs. Brace one hand on Spike's chest. Scrape the open edges of the wound. Don't notice Spike's muscles straining. Keep eyes firmly on the knife.

"Less flesh is coming off this time. I think the skin is starting to heal around the other stitches." That's right, be encouraging. Never mind the fact that he thought about staking Spike not ten minutes ago.

"I'm almost done." Nice soothing voice.

Squeeze the warm water out of the towel and let it drip onto the wound. Go back to the bathroom and wet it down again. Come back and squeeze water onto Spike's shoulder again. Mop up the pink-stained water. Clean the wound. Try to find healthy flesh and still make the stitches as tiny as possible. Take mangled rubber gloves out of Spike's mouth.

"Here. Let's sit you up and then I'll put a new dressing on." And now here we have Spike not talking. Why wasn't Spike saying anything? Spike never stops talking. Before he's always gotten at least a 'bloody 'ell.' Shit.

Wind the strips of torn sheet around Spike's torso and over his shoulder. Wrap a length of duct tape over that to make sure it doesn't come undone. Thank you God, he was done. This time.

"Spike?" Say something, damn it. He never would've thought he would be _trying_ to get Spike to talk to him.

"'m fine, Angel." No, he wasn't. He didn't say 'knock off the mothering, Peaches' or 'enjoy having your hands on me, Poof?' or any of the other things he'd said to Angel over the last weeks. Spike had called him by his name. But then, he'd been doing that a lot more lately, hadn't he? Why? Just what did Spike think was going on here?

Pack the supplies away. Note to self- steal more alcohol from the cleaning lady. Help Spike lay back in bed. Cover Spike up. Move to his side of the bed. Lie down. Brood.

Gunn was the first to fall in that alley in L.A. At least Charles went out fighting. If Angel hadn't gotten knocked out, if Illyria hadn't dragged him down into the sewer, if she hadn't thrown Spike in after... she wouldn't have died alone. He should've died with them. He meant to die with them. It was supposed to have been the end. Go out in a blaze of glory. Not this lingering death. Not trying to take care of a lame vampire while they both starved to death. Not running. He was supposed to be a champion. Champions don't run.

Wait a minute. The bed was shaking. Why was the bed shaking? Was Spike crying? Spike doesn't cry. At least, Spike doesn't let Angel see him cry. Damn. He was never going to get to sleep with Spike shaking the bed like that. If he doesn't do something he'll have to spend another day staring at the back of his eyelids.

"Spike?" Turn over and move closer.

"'m okay. Cold in here is all." No, it wasn't. It was mid-afternoon in Nevada in a motel with no air conditioning. Shit.

Should Angel touch him? Check if he has a fever? How could Spike have a fever? He should be a few degrees cooler than room temperature. It couldn't hurt if Angel checks, could it? Reach out and lay hand on Spike's shoulder. Spike's skin was human-warm. That can't be good. Humans were what? Ninety-eight degrees? Spike was at _least_ that.

"Cold, Angel. It's so cold in here." Shit. Shit. Shit. Nothing else to be done was there? He hopes like hell Spike really was out of it. If not, Angel will never live this down.

"Sit up, Spike." Help Spike up. Take both pillows and stack them against the headboard. Lean back. Take a moment to thank the Powers they were both wearing pants. Spread legs.

"Come here, Spike." And now here we have Spike looking at him. What the hell was that look anyway?

"Come on Spike. I have to get some sleep if I'm going to hunt tonight. I can't do that with you shaking the bed." There. Semi-plausible explanation; if you didn't look at it too hard. It seems to work anyway because now here we have Spike crawling in between Angel's legs and curling up against him. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Too late now. Pull the covers up. Close eyes. Play dead.

Oh no. What was Spike doing? He was hugging Angel. Spike was delirious, he had to be. He was actually snuggling. Crap. If, no, when Spike got better Angel would definitely be bringing this up every time he heard a 'Great Poof' comment. Heaven help him. Why was he doing this again? Oh yes, Spike had a soul now and Spike was good now and Spike stood up with him and Spike was wounded saving him and... Spike was the only friend he had left.

"Angel?" Soft voice and Angel can feel Spike's lips against his chest.

"Yes, Spike?" Big sigh. He knew. He just knew Spike was going to say something. It was about damn time.

"Could you talk to me? Just until I fall asleep?" Great, now Spike had him breathing again. Great big, gulping breaths because suddenly Spike's weight on him seems to have gotten a lot heavier. Angel's chest hurt.

"Uhhh, talk about what?" Angel doesn't make idle conversation. He doesn't know how. Spike knows that.

"Tell me a story. A good one; not something from one of your moldy old books." What stories did he know? There was only one that he could remember right now. At least the heroine lives happily ever after in that one.

"Okay, Will. You may have heard this one though." Wrap arms around Will, because it _was_ Will with him now. Rest cheek on soft, matted hair. Clear throat. Deep breath.

"Once upon a time in California, there was a golden girl..."


	2. Passing Strange

**Story Notes:** Rated for language. Set after NFA. Angel POV.  
**A/N:** In the dictionary "strange" is defined as: unexpected, hard to explain, and difficult to understand. "Passing" is defined as: moving past, as in a car; transitory; and very or extremely- in the archaic form. Which makes 'Passing Strange' an apt title for this chapter. Also, I just couldn't think of annything better. If any of you can, let me know. Apologies to all for any grammatical errors or just plain wrongness. Feedback is always appreciated. This one is for Tina.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Never gonna be mine. Not making a profit here either. 

**Passing Strange**

Spike was still sleeping. Spike had been sleeping since they left the last motel. Should he be sleeping so much? Angel didn't know but he was loathe to wake him; it could be just what Spike needed. Besides, if Spike was sleeping he couldn't be talking, could he? That was a guarantee right there that Angel would leave him be. There was really no reason to wake him up; Spike hadn't started shaking again and his fever hadn't gotten worse. It hadn't gotten better, but it hadn't gotten worse. Spike was going to be fine, though. Sure he was.

Crap. Almost missed his turn off. After another not-so-successful night of hunting, they had tried to figure out exactly how far Angel could drive on what gas they had left. Angel had wanted to head east. So why was he now driving north? Oh yes, _Spike_. It was all Spike's fault. Never had anyone been a bigger pain in his ass than Spike. That, of course, explained why they were stuck together for the foreseeable future. Angel obviously hadn't done enough to pay for his sins. This was penance. It was the only explanation he had for why he was still taking care of Spike so he was going with it. Denial was a wonderful thing.

Would the Earth really stop turning if Angel admitted that his very real hatred for Spike had somehow (and he really didn't know how) turned into not-quite-friendship? Maybe not. But it was best not to test that theory. He could be wrong.

Neither of them had mentioned that afternoon's bit of weirdness. It was business as usual even though Spike still wasn't saying much of anything. That worried Angel more than the shaking or the fever. Spike was _always_ talking to him. It made Angel crazy and that may have been the whole point. Even when Spike was too weak to do anything else, he had still yammered on and on. Spike still managed to get under Angel's skin, even while dying. It was some kind of natural talent. Now that Spike _wasn't_ talking, Angel worried. Maybe even missed his voice. And there was no way in hell Angel would ever admit to even thinking that.

At what point had Angel stopped enjoying brooding by himself in the dark so much? He loved to brood. He brooded all the time. But, before, there had always been Wesley with a new dire situation, or Fred with some esoteric formula for whatever, or Gunn with an interesting new weapon or boring legal brief to go over, or Harmony with some completely vapid thing, or Lorne with a horrid new nickname for him, or Cordy with anything under the sun, or Doyle with his drinking stories, or Illyria with her ill-concealed superiority complex. Since Sunnydale, since Buffy, here had always been someone talking to him; making sure he didn't become stuck in his own morosity. He'd gotten used to it. He'd looked forward to it. He would sometimes brood just so someone would come talk to him. Not all the time, he wasn't that pathetic, but every once in a while.

Hey wait a minute, what was that? An abandoned gas station? Pull car off road and out of sight behind the building. Well, the walls seemed to be in fairly good condition. No large holes anywhere that he could see. The roof was still on; always a plus, assuming he didn't want to become a vampiric pillar of fire when the sun rose. This was perfect. They could stay here indefinitely; at least, until they starved to death or the demon horde finally caught up with them. There was even a tired looking little diner and a ramshackle motel across the road. And wasn't it more than a little sad that he was this excited?

"Spike?" Nothing. Clear throat. Try again. "Spike?"

Why wasn't Spike answering him? Shut the car off and turn around. Oh shit. No Spike on the backseat. Damn it! Spike had dusted and Angel never even knew it. God, what was he going to do now? He hadn't let himself consider that Spike would actually _die_ on him. Spike, in between snarking and driving Angel ape-shit crazy, would get better and they would either go their separate ways or, maybe, they would band together and start worrying the edges of the demon horde, pick them off one by one. That was the plan. They had never talked about it, but that was the plan. Now what the hell was he going to do?

"Angel? Why've we stopped?" And now here we have Spike popping up from the back floor of the car. _Fucking Spike!_ It was a good damned thing Angel didn't have a heart that beat. Deep, calming breath.

"Spike." Several more deep, calming breaths. And now Spike had him breathing again. "What were you doing on the floorboard?" He should get bonus points for not twisting Spike's head right off. He really should.

"I like the sound and the vibration. It's soothing. What's wrong?" And now here we have Spike looking at him all sleepy and confused. Let's see, why would Angel be upset? Oh yes, Spikehad let Angel think he was DEAD! Okay, so maybe Spike hadn't meant to, but that was no excuse. Angel had thought he was _DEAD_. The part of him that had been relieved was now feeling guilty and pissed off and the part of him that had wanted to cry and rage was feeling embarrassed and pissed off.

"What do you think is wrong, Spike? I call your name; you don't answer. I look in the back seat; you're not there. It could be that I thought you were dead. Yes, yes, I think that could be it! That's exactly what's wrong. You let me think you were dead." Sarcasm was also a wonderful thing. And hey, ten extra points to him for not shouting. But subtract fifty for sounding so pathetic there at the end.

"Oh. I meant, why're we stopping? You thought I dusted? Would've thought you'd be happier about it. Free you up to go your own way. You wouldn't have to coddle the lame vampire anymore." Why had he ever thought he _wanted_ Spike to talk to him? Oh right, the completely annoying sound of his voice. Sometimes Angel was extremely stupid.

"We're stopping because we're here." Complete refusal to acknowledge anything else Spike had just said.

"Angel-" Oh no. Spike was giving him the Look again. The last time thathappened it hadended weirdly. Well Angel was stopping that right now. They were not going down that road again. He didn't know what to do with Spike when he acted like that. Spike was brash and annoying and hyperactive. And Spike hated Angel. Spike was famous for hating Angel. Spike was not self-effacing or thoughtful or quiet, and he did _not_ look at Angel like that; even though Angel wasn't exactly sure what 'that' was. The whole thing just reminded him too much of William and that was confusing him. And giving him a headache.

"I found an abandoned gas station. Come on. We'd better check it out. We've only got a few more hours til sunrise and I want to try hunting again before we sleep." Much too busy to talk about our feelings or whatever was about to come out of Spike's mouth. God knew, just about anything could.

Get out of the car before Spike can say anything else. Open Spike's door. Help Spike out. How the hell did he get himself down in there anyway? Let Spike lean on him. Start walking. Try not to notice the heat still coming off Spike or the smell of rotting flesh. No smell of fresh blood, thank the Powers. At least Angel wouldn't have to bandage him up again. If he had to go through that just once more, he might suggest they should both stay up and watch the sunrise- from the hood of the car.

It would be a moot point before too much longer anyway. They were starving and Spike was fading faster each day. He probably wouldn't last through another morning if Angel couldn't find enough animals for them to feed from. Once Spike was gone, Angel would likely just wait for the demon horde to come for him; take as many out as he could before they overwhelmed him. He had loosed destruction upon the land and he would be the one to stay its march. If only he could find one good feed, just one, Spike could start to heal. Then Angel would able to turn back with a clear conscience. He would hunt down and kill every single thing in the horde or destroy himself trying. His death wouldn't mean anything now anyway. Everyone he cared about was either already dead or better off without him. The world didn't need him anymore; he had done his part. The Powers That Be could kiss his ass. He couldn't do this anymore. And now he was getting morose again. Snap the hell out of it, Angel. Brooding was not going to help. Not that there was anything that _could_ help this.

Angel found himself making bets on how long it would take for Spike to start ranting. The best thing that could be said was that this place was a pit. At least all the windows in the outer room were boarded over with plywood. The small office in the back would have to do for a bedroom. It didn't have any windows and Angel was sure he could figure some way to brace the broken door shut. He would have to find time to clean it out though. There was no way he was sleeping in it like this. There were beer and soda cans everywhere, pieces of rotting cloth and plastic bags, used condoms, rat feces, and dirt and shelving pieces strewn all over the floor. Not to mention the smell. Ah, home sweet home. Sometimes Angel hated his life.

"With a little work it won't be so bad. The walls are intact and the roof looks solid." Very smooth, very convincing. Angel could almost believe it himself if he didn't know he was lying.

"Yeah. It's... not bad." Who the hell _was_ this? Angel missed the old smirking, snarking, smart-assed Spike. Well, not 'missed' exactly, but at least he knew what to expect from that Spike. The one he seemed to be stuck with today was confusing the hell out of him. Angel had the nagging feeling that something was going on here that he wasn't privy to.

"Here... you can... and... I'll just move this... and this chair should hold if you want to... here let me help." And now here we have Angel unable to string a whole sentence together. Why did he suddenly feel so lost? Angel had found shelter. He had saved them for one more day. Hell, he was still the one doing everything. He drove the car. He hunted. He took care of Spike. He made the plans. He was the one holding it all together. He was the strong one.

So why did Angel feel like he was drowning? He looked at this place, their situation, Spike, and he suddenly felt like he couldn't breathe. Damn it, he didn't _need_ to breathe. He couldn't do this right now. Damn it all to hell! He was so tired of this crap. Angel hadn't slept in four days; he didn't need this right now. Maybe that was it, he was just exhausted. Could vampires suffer from sleep depravation? Maybe. Maybe they could. Well that's just all he needed, wasn't it? Let's just heap one more thing on top of good old Angel. He can take it. He's taken everything else. What's one more thing? The straw, that's what. The final fucking straw.

"Angel?" And now here we have the Look; up close and personal because Spike was still holding on to his arm. What was it Spike saw that made him look at Angel like that? What was he thinking? Angel didn't know but he wished Spike would just knock it the hell off. It was getting creepy.

"What, Spike?" Big sigh. Spike was going to start snarking at him. He knew it. It was only a matter of time. It was how this went. Or, at least, it _had_ been.

"It's a good place. We could be right cozy here after awhile. Get some throw rugs or something. Assuming we don't die painfully in the next couple of days, of course." What? Did Spike even see what this place looked like? Was Spike playing with him? Was this some new Angel-baiting game he had come up with- number five hundred eighty-four on the list? What was going on here?

"Of course." What else could he say? "I'll just... there's only a few hours until sunrise. I'd better try hunting again. I'll be back as soon as I can." Walk out the door and don't look back. He could feel Spike still Looking at him, though, couldn't he?

It was nice and peaceful out here in the middle of nowhere. No alarms going off, no sound of gunshots, no voices raised in anger, no screams for help, or laments for the dead. But how long would it stay that way? The demon horde didn't give up. They would be found sooner or later and anyone in their vicinity would pay the price. How many in L.A. had died when the horde was set loose? How many more were dying right now somewhere in their wake?

If Angel had thought that he would've survived long enough to crawl out of the alley behind the Hyperion, he would have planned for this. He would've stashed weapons and money somewhere. He would've had a plan. Instead, he was on the run, with Spike of all people; and he was running out of options. This was the end of the line. What the hell where they going to do?

Wait. What was that smell? Deep breath. _Horses?_ He had found horses! Damn, he was good. Okay, so they were standing in trailers in the middle of the motel parking lot across the road. That didn't matter. What mattered was that they were large enough for both he and Spike to feed from all they wanted. Spike would finally be able to feed well enough to start to heal.

Turn right around and run back into their new home.

"Spike!" **_What the hell!_** And now here we have Spike standing in the middle of the room holding a piece of broken wood. Leap into the room and grab Spike's wrist.

"Hey! Shove off, you git!" Press down until the bones grind together and Spike drops the damn stake. Deep breath... and now he was breathing again.

"Spike? What do you think you are doing?" Speak softly to the crazy vampire.

"What does it look like? Tryin' to be useful for once, aren't I? 'm cleaning up, you prat. I can goddamn well pick things up." Ahh... well, maybe Angel overreacted just a tad.

"No. You can't. You're too weak. You could fall and break the stitches open." And that couldn't be allowed to happen again. Neither of them would survive it.

"It doesn't matter, Angel. You don't have to keep patching me up. Not getting any better, am I? My nose still works. You don't think I can smell the rot? You don't think I can feel it eating away at me?" And there was the damned Look again. What _was_ that? "I'm losing myself one bloody piece of flesh at a time. You hunt but there's never enough for both of us. I'm killing us. Better all round if I _did_ dust. 'm tired of lying around waiting to get better. It's not gonna happen and we both know it."

And now Angel knows exactly what that look is. And he wishes to God he didn't. Shit! Everything just got a lot more complicated. As if it wasn't complicated enough already. Why did these things keep happening to him? Oh right, it was all Spike's fault, all Spike's fault...

"No." Soft voice. Look Spike in the eyes for the first time all night. Damn it, now they were both breathing.

"Angel-" He didn't want to hear it. Whatever it was, he didn't want to hear it.

"No. Just... no. We're not doing this now. Look, if you're strong enough to try to clean, you're strong enough to walk to the horses. I don't think I could get them to come over here anyway." He probably _could_ but he was bound to make a lot of noise doing it and he would look extremely suspicious to anyone looking out from the motel rooms or passing by on the road.

"You poor, undead bastard. You've finally gone round the bend, haven't you? The pressure finally got to you. Completely tipped your trolley." What? What was Spike talking about _now_?

"Spike, I found horses." Small, simple words because obviously Spike wasn't tracking very well. Maybe the decay was moving up into his brain. Could Spike come back from that? If not, how long would he last? Would he even still _be_ Spike in the end? Would Angel wind up having to stake him after all? Could he do that? Oh dear God, how could he look Spike in the eyes and stake him? He had done this; Angel had done this to him.

"I found you horses. Spike?" Very, very soft voice and he wasn't pleading at all. And if Angel's eyes were starting to sting it was just from lack of sleep and if his chest hurt, well, that was from lack of sleep also.

"Course you did. Nice big, fat ones, too, I imagine. Bet they were just waiting for you out on the road all docile-like. Good job, Angel. You did good." And now here we have Spike nodding his head and talking to Angel in a soft voice as if _he_ was the one going quietly insane. And whyon earthwas Spike patting his hand like that?

"Spike... never mind." Angel _could_ move faster on his own, he wouldn't have to share his kills, he wouldn't have Spike Looking at him or talking to him, he wouldn't have to worry about anybody but himself, but... then he would be alone; another voice gone silent, another friend lost by the wayside. Well, screw that. Angel was tired of seeing the people he... didn't-quite-hate die. He couldn't do it anymore. Come hell or high water, he was going to at least save Spike; whether Spike liked it or not.

He would just do this the easy way. Don't make eye contact. Bend down. One arm goes around Spike's back. Be careful of the shoulder. One arm goes under the knees. Stand up and try not to jostle him too much.

"What the hell are you doing?" Don't notice how much weight he's lost, how fragile he seems. Try to keep hands from clenching.

"I'm saving you." _I'm saving me._ Angel was getting the Look again. This time he returned it and watched Spike's eyes widen and then narrow in speculation. Angel could see the wheels turning but, in the end, Spike just smirked at him. God, he couldn't believe how good it was to see that. It was how this went. It was _always_ how this went.

"Hey! Put me down, you great poof. Where the bloody hell do you think you're taking me?" _Oh, yes!_ The 'Great Poof' comment. Angel had just been waiting for that one. Thank God. Oh, thank you, God. This, Angel could handle.

"I'm a great poof?" Strategically raised eyebrows. Smirk. And his eyes were still stinging but they were clear and his chest still hurt but his voice didn't waver at all. Walk to the door. "I think you're confused, Spike my boy. As I seem to remember, and please correct me if I'm wrong here, _you_ were the one hugging _me_ this afternoon."

"Never happened!" Angel would take what he could get and find his fun wherever he could; and if he made half the faces Spike was right now, it was no wonder Spike was always digging at him. Walk out the door and into the night.

"You were even snuggling." They hadn't fed yet but there was more life in Spike's eyes than Angel had seen in weeks. Spike, _his_ Spike, was still in there.

"Were not. Hey, horses!" And now here we have Spike looking completely surprised. If Angel weren't afraid he would hurt or drop him, he would smack Spike in the back of his head. Note to self- make a list: Things To Do To Spike When He Got Better. If only he had a pen, or some paper.


	3. Visions of Strangers Part 1

**Story Notes:** Rated for language. Set after NFA. Spike.  
**A/N #1:** "Vision" is defined as: the ability to see, a mental picture, something seen in a dream or trance, and something or somebody beautiful. "Stranger" is defined as: a newcomer, an outsider, a visitor, and an unfamiliar person. Feedback is always appreciated. Thanks to ShinodaBear for encouragement and various Spike-bribing techniques. (You know what I mean.)  
**A/N #2:** Okay, I know I've deviated from the narration style used in Chapters 1 & 2. I did this on purpose and there is a reason. This isn't Spike's POV exactly, or at least, these aren't Spike's stream-of-consciousness thoughts. We'll get back to that in a bit.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Never gonna be mine. Not making a profit here either. 

**Visions of Strangers- Part 1**

Spike was screaming. He knew he was screaming as he hacked and stabbed and sliced at anything that got close to him. Funny how he couldn't hear himself, though. His ears were filled with cotton. Only thin, meaningless sounds reached him. They made no sense. None of it made any sodding sense.

He could see Gunn's body from the corner of his eye. There were two _things_ snarling and pulling at bits of the body that shouldn't ever be seen on the outside of it. He wanted to rip through those horrible beasts and spread _their_ insides out, bathe in _their_ blood. When he did, he would howl his victory to the heavens. Let Charlie-boy know he'd been avenged. He had his own neck to save first, though.

It was all he could do to hold his own. No matter how many he killed, they… just… kept… coming. He was standing on misshapen, nightmarish bodies piled at least five feet high, but the only things he could see from his lofty perch were more demons as they swarmed up towards him over their fallen brethren. He didn't know where Angel had gone or Illyria. He only hoped they were still with him. Somewhere.

Spike shifted his weight to meet the club of… something… black-purple and glaring with far too many wild orange eyes. A shock ran through him and he was suddenly falling sideways down the pile of bodies. He twisted and rolled, desperately trying to stay out of reach of claws and weapons. When he finally stopped, flat on his back, he looked up to see Illyria standing over him. She grabbed an arm and a leg and tossed him high above the screaming, twisting horde.

He stared up at the night sky and watched a cloud creep over the moon as he sailed along. He spread his arms, palms up in supplication, and rode the wind. Would he just keep floating? Maybe he was already dust. Maybe he'd ghosted again and was just floating through the ether. Years passed as he watched the clouds cover the moon while drifting high above the war below.

He didn't know when he'd landed. There was no jarring blow, no painful impact. He was flying through the air and then… he wasn't. When he finally realized that he was on solid ground again, he got up and started running back towards the fight, now so far away from him. He had to get back in there. They needed him.

As he got closer, he saw Illyria's legs cut out from under her and knew there was no way he could get to her in time. He tried though, he tried so hard. No matter how fast he ran it just wasn't enough. Her arms were pulled from her body and Spike could hear the sound of tearing over her screams.

He swerved around her attackers and ran on, dodging clawing fingers and gaping maws. He had caught a scent; a scent he would know anywhere. He staggered to a halt and watched in awe as Angel ran his sword through the breast of the dragon. It reared back on its hind legs and flared its iridescent wings once more before it came toppling down and Angel was buried under who knew how many tons of dragon flesh.

Spike leapt forward and shoved his hands frantically under the corpse. His questing fingers found gore-matted hair and he dug in and pulled. He had Angel halfway out when he noticed that the night had fallen silence. When he looked up, all the demons were standing in an unmoving ring around him. They watchedquietly as Spike tugged and yanked at Angel's body.

"You were too late, vampire. You have failed." It was Illyria, whole and unharmed. But he had seen her death, hadn't he? He wanted to ask her for help but her eyes were frozen and calculating. Any emotion she might once have possessed was absent as she watched him.

"Couldn't save me. Couldn't save her. What makes you think you can save him?" Gunn? Gunn was standing, arms crossed, beside Illyria. He had never seen Charlie look at him like that, like he was… evil, unclean, unwanted, beneath him.

"I can save him. He's not dust yet. I can save him." And he would if he could just… get... Angel… out.

"Your struggle serves no purpose. His heart does not beat. He does not breathe. His carcass is only useful as nourishment for the green." Illyria walked over and nudged the fallen dragon aside with her foot and Angel suddenly came flying free.

"He's a vampire, you blue bint. Heart's not supposed to beat." Spike laid Angel out and checked him over for injuries. Angel's skin was warm and flushed and there wasn't a mark on him except for a tiny drop of blood on his lips.

"It beats if you're human, or were for about two seconds before you were buried under a dragon." Spike froze. That voice… it… wasn't possible.

"Not happy to see me?" It was Angel. But Angel was…

Gone.

The body that he had been kneeling next to was gone. Illyria, Gunn, and the demon horde, they were all gone. Now there was only the man standing before him wearing Angel's face.

"You, you're not dead. They died but… and then they weren't dead either." This didn't make any sense. No sense at all.

"Wrong, Willie, my boy. We're all dead here." The Angel-thing began to circle Spike with a lazy pace, stalking him. "Never fast enough, never strong enough, never good enough. Honestly, I don't know why I kept you around as long as I did." The Angel-thing stopped in front of him and suddenly Spike was on his back with a boot pressed into his chest.

"This isn't real. None of this. Just a bloody dream." Of course it was. It hadn't happened like this.

"Maybe, maybe not. Who's to say?" And it was Angelus' mocking smile that taunted him. "Maybe this was your chance to make it right, Willie." The boot left his chest and Angelus was circling him again.

"You could have saved the day, been the big hero. Maybe gotten the girl, for once." Spike blinked and, just like that, Angelus was crouched down next to him with Spike's chin in his hand. "Hey, maybe they would've even given youa parade." Spike wrapped his hands around Angelus' wrist. He jerked and struggled but was unable to prythe fingers off his chin.

"Of course, it's much more likely that this is Hell. And guess who you get to share eternity with?" Angelussmiled at Spike fondly."I asked for you special. Wouldn't want my favorite boy to be lonely."

"Piss off." It wasn't the smartest thing to do, and his gut cramped up even as he said it, but with Angelus you couldn't show weakness. He'd torture Spike either way but at least he wouldn't get as much enjoyment out of it.

"Oh, that hurt." Angelus raised his other hand and pressed it to his chest with a little moue of disappointment. "I come all this way and this is the reception I get?"

Angelus stood up and, with Spike's chin in his hand, Spike had no choice but to follow. As soon as he felt the ground underneath his feet, Spike started punching and kicking. The blows connected, Spike could feel them hit, but Angelus paid him no attention at all.

"_Someone_ has forgotten his place. _Someone_ needs to be taught a lesson. Don't worry though, Daddy's here. I'll teach you everything you need to know." Angelus pulled Spike in close to him and whispered in his ear. "Now, just for old times' sake… scream for me."

ooo


	4. Visions of Strangers Part 2

**Story Notes:** Rated for language. Set after NFA. Angel.  
**A/N #1:** See 'Visions of Strangers- Part 1' for title information. Apologies to all for any grammatical errors or just plain wrongness. Feedback is always appreciated. **A/N #2:** This is a continuation, sort of, of Part 1 so the narration style remains the same. The next chapter will return to stream-of-consciousness type storytelling. The final two chapters will be all about Spike.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Never gonna be mine. Not making a profit here either. 

**Visions of Strangers- Part 2**

Angel was trying to sleep. It was working about as well as it had since the battle. Every time he closed his eyes he saw… everything, every horrible thing that had led him here. The visions swirled around behind his eyelids in a kaleidoscope of blood, pain, and death.

"Do you think she will like it?" Spike was standing in the doorway, brow furrowed, as he stared at a point somewhere over Angel's head.

"Like what?" It could be anything. It could be nothing. Spike didn't live here anymore. This was just his hollow shell.

"I wrote her a poem. It's a secret, though. Shhh, mustn't tell." Spike wasn't looking at him so Angel didn't know if Spike was talking to _him_ or if he thought he was talking to someone else.

Spike had been calling him: Father, Watcher, Whelp, Angelus, Doyle, and Clem, depending on his mood. Most of the time it didn't matter if Angel answered back or just tried to ignore him; Spike would just continue on, having whole conversations with the empty air. That wasn't the worst, though. No, there was despair still untapped in their house of pain.

"I'm sure she'll love it." He was participating in Spike's delusions, letting them be real. It was easier this way, though. Most of the time, it was easier.

"You haven't even looked." Spike was looking straight at him now with watery, red-rimmed eyes. In another minute he would be crying, his skeletal frame racked with sobs. Once he started, the crying could go on for hours or, once, days.

"Show me." He let Spike pull him up and out into the outer room of the gas station.

Merciful God and all His saints, what the _**hell**_ had Spike done?

Angel hadn't been fazed by the smell of fresh blood or the traces of it on Spike's fingers. Spike had been gnawing and tearing at his fingers for two days. It wasn't anything new. This, though, this was new. Spike had covered one entire wall with his blood. The splashes and swirls were black as death in the muted, filtered sunlight. There were… poems; dozens upon dozens of poems, all written in blood, adorning the wall.

Spike had never done anything like it before. Before, Spike had just shuffled around the room talking to himself or to Angel or to nobody at all. He wasn't dangerous. He'd never tried to harm himself or Angel. He'd never tried to go outside during the day. Once, Spike had wandered away while Angel was out hunting but he hadn't gone far and he hadn't gone anywhere near the road or the motel. Angel had yelled at him and Spike had cried and apologized like a small child; head down, arms behind his back, and the toe of his boot scuffing a bare spot on the dirty floor.

"You don't like it. I-I know they're not any good, love. Never could write poetry worth a damn. I just… they come from the heart, dead thing that it is, and they're all for you." Angel knew Spike wasn't talking to him anymore, if he ever had been.

"Spike." Spike was looking at him, hopeful and braced for the blow all at the same time, and Angel just couldn't do it. "I-I love them. They're… they're so… beautiful. They're beautiful, William."

"Not as beautiful as you are, my love, my Slayer, my Buffy." Spike was crying again but it didn't matter because Angel was too. And when Spike wrapped his arms around him, Angel didn't pull back. When Spike stretched up on his toes and murmured into Angel's ear, Angel only clutched at Spike and let the words flow over him. He could take it. Angel had done this to him so he could damn well stand here and take it.

"My, _someone_ has issues." That wasn't Spike's voice, that was… his own voice. Angel pulled away from the arms holding him and frowned in distaste.

"Angelus."

"Oh, you are the smart one, aren't you? What gave me away? My keen fashion sense?" His face, his own face, was laughing back at him.

"Haven't we already done this once this century?" Angelus didn't scare him. Not like this, not still trapped within him. "You should have stuck with the Spike scenario."

"I got bored." Angelus shrugged, a fluid movement of shoulders and silk. "There are only so many times we can have that dream before it just doesn't do it for me the way it used to." Angelus grinned and leaned into him. "I like the Buffy dreams much better. That girl, she was something else, wasn't she?"

"Shut up." The best response to Angelus was no response but Angel couldn't help himself. "You don't get to talk about her."

"Well then, I suppose we could discuss your deep emotional problems." Angelus strolled over to the bloody wall and appeared to study the writing on it. "That's always good for a laugh."

Angel walked up beside the demon and clasped his hands behind his back. He slid a glance to his left and gave a small half-smile. Compared to how his life was going this was actually kind of soothing. Angel frowned. That, in and of itself, was more than a little disturbing.

"Well, I just live for your amusement. What are you doing here?" Angelus was always a whispering voice inside him but he usually didn't invade Angel's dreams.

"Maybe I just want to catch up, see how the whole hero thing is going. Not looking too good from my end." Angelus dragged a finger through the drying blood and delicately licked it clean before turning to Angel and winking. "That's our Will to a tee. Funny how well you remember some things, isn't it? No matter how long you've went without. "

"That's enough." That was more than enough. He knew from the way it smelled, even in his dreams, that it _was_ Will's blood, Spike's blood, on the wall. "You have five seconds and then I start kicking your ass. What are you doing here?"

"Distracting you." Angelus reached out to coat his finger again and Angel grabbed his wrist. Angelus just smirked as his muscles strained to push his fingers closer and closer to their goal. "How's that working by the way?"

"Distracting me from what?" Angelus finally gave up his little game and threw Angel back into the middle of the room.

"Oh no." Angelus wagged his finger. "That's not how the game is played and you know it." He tapped his lips with a finger as if thinking. "You could try begging though. I always loved it when they begged. And cried. And screamed. Come to think of it," he said laughingly, "I just loved the whole damned thing. What does that say about _my_ deep emotional problems, do you think?"

"That you're a psychotic asshole?" Angel smirked back at his doppelganger.

"Flattery will get you… exactly what you want this time, soul boy. This should be good for, oh, I don't know, a week of mental pain and suffering at the least." Angelus tilted his head back and closed his eyes, sighing deeply. "Don't you just love the sound of screams in the afternoon?"

Angel cocked his head, listening. He _could_ hear someone screaming in the background. Where was that coming from?

Oh shit, _Spike_…

ooo


	5. Down a Strange Road

**Story Notes:** Rated for language. Set after NFA. Spike POV.  
**A/N #1:** By now you all know what "strange" means. "Road" is defined as: a long surfaced route broad enough for vehicles to be driven on and a route or way that heads toward some predictable outcome.  
**A/N # 2:** You will obviously sense a recurring theme in this one. All I can say is I don't know what the heck I was thinking. The little ditty Spike made up did crack me up six ways from Tuesday the first time he sang it for me though. Apologies to all for any grammatical errors or just plain wrongness. Feedback is always appreciated. **Disclaimer:** Not mine. Never gonna be mine. Not making a profit here either. 

**Down A Strange Road**

Angel is a wanker. Angel has always been a wanker. Angel will continue to be a wanker until he dusts.

What the hell? So Spike had a sodding nightmare, not the first time, was it? Not like Angel himself didn't have nightmares. Not that Angel actually slept, as such. How long could a person go without getting more than a few minutes of sleep at a time? That had to play silly buggers with your thinking. Not that Angel thought, as such.

Spike had made the mistake of telling Angel that Angelus had made an appearance yesterday in his dreams. Didn't want the prat to think he was screaming like a sodding girl for no reason. The poof had gone all quiet and then proposed the most idiotic theory Spike had ever heard; and that was saying something as he had spent quite a lot of time locked up in a basement apartment with Harris.

Why the hell would a wizard be trying to get to them in their dreams? The poof had lost it. Gone completely sack of hammers. _Insanity is often the logic of an accurate mind overtaxed_- Oliver Wendell Holmes. Not that Angel had an accurate mind to begin with. Photographic? Very possibly. He certainly managed to remember every single stupid, embarrassing thing Spike had ever done or said. But accurate? No.

One, if a wizard were powerful enough to contact them in their dreams, he would be powerful enough to find them and collect on the price on their heads. They were still alive, or undead as the case may be, and there were no signs of demons lurking about, so that was out. Two, if this mythical wizard knew what the sodding hell he was doing, it wouldn't have been Angelus who'd tortured him. In this case, one and two made naught.

The nightmare was obviously all a product of Spike's fevered imagination. He wished he didn't have such a good one. He could _feel_ those hot pokers. And of course there would be hot pokers. The soul was still kicking him, wasn't it? Stick your Grandsire with hot pokers _just the once_ and see if it doesn't come back to bite you on the arse as soon as you get a soul. Spike wasn't even the one doing the sticking and he still felt guilty about it. Well, mildly guilty anyway. Damned soul. Not that he would give it up for all the tea in China. _China_. Well, there he'd gone and thought about another thing to try not to feel guilty for, hadn't he? Maybe he would ask Angel exactly how long the soul would be screaming at him every time he turned around and if the dreams ever got better. Once Angel was making sense, of course. Although, that could be a long time coming.

Well, if he had to have nightmares, at least they had broken the damn fever. He hadn't liked having to rely on the poof, wasn't proper. Spike was a big, bad vampire. Granted he did have a soul, but he was still a vampire and not some wilting nancy boy who couldn't look after himself. He wasn't like the poof. Scared of a bleeding wizard.

Damn it. Now he had that stupid movie song in his head. Should've never agreed to watch it. What kind of vampire gets bullied into watching the Wizard of Oz, five times mind you, by a little slip of a girl? A completely whipped vampire, that's who.

This could work, though. Just change the words up a little and…

Angel can be such a poofter, that's why he's called the Great Poof. You'll find he is the poofiest poof if ever a poof there was. If ever, oh ever, a poof there was, Angel, he is surely one because, because, because, because, because, becaaaause. Because of the poncy things he does. Dah, dah, dah, dah, dah… dah, DAH!

"Spike, stop singing." Nope, if Spike suffers, everybody suffers.

"Not singing, am I? 'm humming. Not like you're really sleeping over there so don't even start, mate." Could Captain Forehead _be_ a bigger pain in the arse? Probably not even if he tried.

"You're distracting me. I'm trying to figure out how-"

"How the sodding great wizard could have masterminded this nefarious plot against us?" Had to show the poof he was okay, didn't he? What was more Spike-like than driving Angel crazy? Not a bleeding thing.

"Trying to figure out how you would even know a word as big as 'nefarious.' It has four whole syllables in it. You didn't hurt yourself, did you? I think we still have some aspirin left." Oh, and Spike was just brilliant for wanting his Angel back instead of 'mostly catatonic guy', wasn't he? Wait. _His_ Angel? Stupid, sodding, nancy boy, poof. And right then he wasn't sure just which one of them he was talking about.

"I know a lot of things. You just never bothered to find out." There, take that. That was really very sad, wasn't it? Surely he could do better than that. Good gods, he hadn't lost his touch, had he? Maybe he wasn't feeling as well as he'd thought he was.

Ohhhhh, Angel can be such a poofter, that's why he's called the Great Poof. You'll find he is the poofiest poof if ever a poof there was. If ever, oh ever, a poof there was, Angel, he is surely one because, because, because, because, because, becaaaause. Because of the poncy things he does. Dah, dah, dah, dah, dah… dah, DAH!

No. On second thought, he was actually feeling pretty damn good. Better than he had been anyway. He could stand up without feeling like he was about to fall over. That was a definite improvement. No more hanging on to the wanker's arm like some geriatric relative.

"Spike, stop humming." He looks so tired, doesn't he? Well, there wasn't much Spike could do about that except… sing him to sleep? He really did have the perfect song.

"I could sing it instead." It would be a damn shame not to share. Besides, maybe the idiot would get the melody stuck in _his_ head and it would leave Spike the hell alone.

"God, that's all I need, you singing. Will you please shut up?" Like he was really just waiting on Spike to stop before he drifted off into dreamland. Angel might be lying down next to him on this poor excuse for a bed, but he wasn't going to go to sleep. Did Angel really think Spike didn't know what was going on here?

Spike might play at being the careless ner-do-well sometimes, most times really, but he had been an educated man before he was turned. A surprising number of things stay with you even after you become a soulless, blood-sucking fiend: intelligence, or lack thereof; love of books, if you're so inclined; certain turns of phrases; likes and dislikes; the ability to feel, to love, to hurt; values. Values. Coming from a formerly indiscriminant killer, there was a laugh. He did have his own personal code, though; things he'd never do. That list was a lot longer now than it had been.

Angel tended to forget or, not forget, overlook what William had been before he became Spike. Not all Angel's fault. Spike had actively tried to bury William. Some things though, especially considering what he was and the company he invariably kept, don't stay buried.

William had been a romantic in the classical sense of the word. He would've loved this whole thing. Two Heroes, capital H, setting Evil, capital E, back on its haunches and seriously delaying the scheduled Apocalypse, capital A, now traveling through a strange land with all the minions of hell -or one of the hells anyway- following after while they just tried to find their way home. A completely screwed up version of the fuckin' Odyssey or, maybe, the Wizard of Oz. And if some part of Spike agreed with the long dead ghost of himself, well… he had obviously gone right off the edge, hadn't he? Next thing you know he'll be spouting bloody bad poetry at the sodding poof. That was enough of a visual to completely put him off his sleep.

"Spike?" Angel had that tone in his voice again. Spike wondered if he even knew he was doing it.

"What, poof?" Whatever it was he probably didn't want to talk about it. Not if Angel was speaking softly to him like that.

"Why did you do it? And don't call me that." Sodding hell. What did the ponce think he was playing at now? They didn't have deep philosophical discussions or talk about their bleeding feelings. Not right out like that. That's not how the game was played and Angel knew it.

"Don't know what you mean, Peaches." No way in hell were they going to have this discussion. The time for that kind of thing was long past.

"Yes, you do. Why did you agree to do it?" The prat sounded honestly confused and hopelessly earnest. "Why were you in the alley? Why did you sa-"

"I just like to kill things. 'm always up for a spot of violence. You know that." Bloody sorry excuse, that was. If Peaches bought it, he wasn't as smart as Spike always denied that he was.

"I don't buy that. Well, I do buy that, but that's not a good enough reason to almost get yourself killed for someone you… dislike." When _exactly_ had Angel started speaking to him in that tone of voice? After the nightmare? When he was sick and dying? Did it go farther back and Spike just hadn't noticed it?

"I don't dislike you, not exactly. Didn't do it for you, though, poof. Did it for me." And that was the gods' honest truth; even if it was only half of it. "Not exactly a good man, and maybe I never will be, but I'm trying, just like the man said."

"What? What man?" It ought to be physically impossible to scrunch your forehead up like that. Wonder how exactly the ponce did it.

"All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing." Come on, Peaches, this was how the game was played. Not that other thing Angel was trying to do, but _this_. Come on now.

"Oh, okay. I understand." He really was thick, wasn't he?

"You really are thick, aren't you? All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing." If he were any more obvious this wouldn't work at all. Maybe he was just fooling himself after all, maybe Angel had forgotten. It was so long ago, wasn't it? Long ago and far away from where they were now. No reason he _should_ remember. No reason to go back there anyway, no reason at all.

"What? _Oh._ Ummm… Edmund Burke." Yeah. Now they were getting somewhere. Just carry it through to the end now and maybe Angel would be able to sleep. "I think- uhhh… Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul."

"Oh, please. Oscar Wilde. And no more sodding soul quotes." That was too easy and the gods knew they _never_ had done easy very well. "The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience."

"Please yourself. Emily Dickinson. You'll have to try harder than that, Spike." Poof didn't look so haggard now did he? Bit of a sparkle still left deep down in those brown eyes. Not that Spike was looking deeply into those eyes, mind you. Start that and the next thing you know they'd be giving each other looks, as in '_looks_.' "Experience: that most brutal of teachers. But you learn, my God do you learn."

"Alright, hold on a minute…" Damn. He knew this. Where did he know this from? Aha! "C. S. Lewis. When did you start reading him? Thought you went for the high-brow gloom and doom."

"He was Irish. Besides, I liked The Screwtape Letters." It was a damn shame that vampires couldn't blush. It really was. "Go ahead. Dazzle me with your brilliance, and I'm not talking hair color products."

"You're one to talk about hair care, Peaches. Don't know_ how_ you're living with the complete lack of hair gel." This was how it went. _This_ was how the game was played. "Try this then: learning is like a great house that requires a great charge to keep it in repair."

"Still too easy. Samuel Butler. There's no place like home." What the hell was that? Angel knew the rules. Hell, Angel had invented the rules. And what exactly did that tone of voice _mean_?

"That's from the Wizard of Oz. It's what Dorothy had to say to go home. What was the guy's name? Oh yeah, L. Frank Baum. I win, Peaches. You broke the rules." Why the hell was Angel looking at him like that? It was sodding strange and more than a little creepy.

"No, I didn't." Well, that was an Angelus smile if Spike had ever seen one. One of the good ones, one of the _shivery_ ones. "I didn't break them, just changed them a smidge. The game's still the same as it ever was; the rules are just a little different."

Well, whatda ya know? Alright then. Maybe not forever, they both knew the pitfalls of thinking in terms of forever. Maybe just until he got his strength back and could go his own way. Spike could work with these new rules.

Sometimes change was good; necessary for survival, for hoping, for pretending that your heart hadn't been shattered too many times to ever put back together. Spike could play the game. He could pretend.

"Alright then." For now. For a little while.

oooo


	6. Strange Devices

**Story Notes:** Rated for language. Set after NFA. Spike POV.  
**A/N #1:** You all know what "strange" means by this time. "Device" is defined as: a tool designed to perform a particular task; a way of achieving something, especially in a clever or dishonest way; a plan. Thus the title 'Strange Devices.' Apologies to all for any grammatical errors or just plain wrongness. Feedback is always appreciated.  
**A/N #2:** This is the final chapter I had planned. Maybe a foray or two back later but no promises. There are a few people that need to be thanked, in no particular order: MarieP, Roses, VampiressMelanisia, and SpikingJennsAngel for reading, liking, and taking the time to review; celeste9 for her always lovely comments on my writing and for liking quotes (one of which I have inserted just for her); and ShinodaBear for cookies, Spike-bribing techniques, and listening to my silliness- and believe me, that's not easy to do. Thank you all. **Disclaimer:** Not mine. Never gonna be mine. Not making a profit here either. 

**Strange Devices**

Oh God, he was bored. There was fuck all to do while the sun was up except lie down and stare at the cracks in the ceiling. He didn't even have any cards or cigarettes to while away the long hours of the day. He was supposed to be 'resting' and wasn't 'allowed' to walk around under pain of…well…_pain_, courtesy of Captain Forehead.

Spike had been doing nothing _but_ 'resting' for four days now and he'd had it. Peaches could stuff it up his arse. Spike's shoulder was finally healing and he was getting stronger every day. Soon he'd be able to go his own way and then the wanker could order himself around. Would've done it weeks ago but somebody had to take care of Angel. Not his idea of a rousing good time but there was no one else and Angel wouldn't make it on his own. Not like he could take care of himself, could he? Angel would've turned around and let himself be taken by the Horde long before without Spike around, and they both knew it. But give Angel someone 'helpless' to look after and the idiot would kill himself trying to keep going. Not that Spike didn't appreciate the help, but he wasn't about to give the prat any leverage over him by actually telling him so. Any more leverage, rather.

What_ had_ he been thinking? Well…he'd thought he'd almost died, hadn't he? Thought he'd almost slid into Hell. Again. That and he'd still been delirious from the fever; yeah, completely off his gourd. Insanity was always a solid defense. Besides, no one wants to die alone or even almost die alone, do they? But Angel had been there and Angel had been looking after him and…he'd gotten nostalgic, hadn't he?

He'd started thinking about Angelus teaching him the ropes, showing him the beauty of the kill. Thought of all the times they'd went out hunting together in the bad ol' days. Angelus hunting was pure poetry, sadistic bastard. _What a strange illusion it is to suppose that beauty is goodness._ Leo Tolstoy had said that. Smart man. A lot of people could have lived much longer lives by distinguishing between the two.

Angelus' victims never knew what hit them, poor sods, not unless he wanted them to; and no god in the universe could help them if he had wanted them to. Angelus was an inventive bugger, had to give him that. He could make a weapon of torture out of anything: hopes, fears, dreams, love, family, a shrimp fork. Spike had been in awe of him even after he had come to hate him.

Angel taking care of him had brought Spike right back to those first days when Angelus was still mentor/father/friend/god. Angelus had been the epitome of charm and so sweet he could rot your teeth; when he had wanted to be. And sometimes he had wanted to be. Apparently, sometimes Angel wanted to be now too.

Spike hadn't thought about everything he had hated about the bastard, had he? Hadn't thought about Angelus mocking him, or taking Dru in front of him, or the beatings he got, or any of the other one thousand petty humiliations heaped upon him. Hadn't thought about how Angelus had left them; broken up their little group. No, Spike hadn't cared a whit about that. Hadn't thought about it at all through the long years; how everything had disintegrated after the big, hulking Neanderthal had gotten a soul and skipped off. What did Spike care if Darla had then left too or if all Drusilla could talk about was 'Daddy' and how the stars were crying blood? What did Spike care if Angelus had forgotten all about them?

The old boy had come back to the fold after the Great Slayer Debacle of '98 and Spike had thought it would be a new start for their little group. Hadn't figured on Gramps going quite a bit off from being forcibly caged up by the soul all that time though. Also hadn't figured on Dru reverting right back to her Daddy fixation and having to go through that all again or, horror of horrors, having to get in bed with the Slayer (figuratively speaking at that point) to get his girl back. You know, that's probably when it all just started falling apart, wasn't it? It had all went snowballing downhill from there until he had ended up here. At the very bottom.

Oh bloody hell, was he _**brooding**_? Well, that had to stop right the hell now. There was no way he was turning into Big Stupid Git, Jr. Angel did enough brooding for the both of them. Angel did enough brooding for more than a dozen people. One more chapter of 'Brooding with Dummies' and Spike would go for a nice bracing stroll in the sunshine.

"Angel?" Not like Angel was sleeping, was it? Who the hell could sleep on this? They had stolen the blankets and pillows, along with anything else that wasn't nailed down and would fit in the car trunk, from their last motel room. But it was by no stretch of Spike's imagination a bed. A bed, a real bed, had a frame and mattresses. A bed was soft and warm. A bed was a place you _wanted_ to lie down and rest. A bed was_ not_ a hard pallet on the floor.

For too brief a time, Spike had once had a bed of his own in a proper house, and a family of sorts; in his right mind and given half a chance, he wouldn't have eaten any of them anyway, even Daddy Dearest, and that made them family in his book. Bitch and fight they did but, in the end, they always came together; no matter how much pain or betrayal had come before. What else was family, if not that?

Knew exactly what they thought of him, though. The kicker was he couldn't really blame them. He'd done a lot of things back then that he wasn't proud of now. Course, he'd also done a lot of things he was pretty _damn_ proud of when he thought about it.

They would always remember him, though, wouldn't they? One of only two vampires in the entire world with a soul and the _only_ one who had ever closed a Hellmouth. Maybe they'd look back on him one day with a certain nostalgic fondness and say, "Remember that time when Spike…" It was the least the bloody wankers could do after the sacrifice he had made. Course, he was only half as dead as they thought he was, but that was hardly his fault. Would've rather stayed torched than been stuck with His Royal Broodiness at Evil, Inc.

Spike could've left, after he got all corporeal again. Really, though, where did he have to go_ to_? What if she hadn't meant it when she said she loved him? How would she have reacted if he had just shown up on her doorstep? He honestly didn't know but he was afraid it had just been a lie to comfort the extremely flammable. If so, he hadn't wanted to be an albatross around her neck. Besides, fucking with Peaches gave him a warm, glowing feeling inside; the pride of a job well done. No one could mess with Angel like Spike could. It was some kind of natural talent.

Maybe Blue _had_ known what she was doing when she had saved Spike along with Angel. Spike had never thought she would be the self-sacrificing type, though. Didn't fit in with his image of her at all. Just goes to show how badly love could bugger you over, even if you were soulless. He'd forgotten that it was ten times worse if you had one.

"Angel?" Still no response. Angel was playing dead again. As if Spike wouldn't know. He always knew when the big git was brooding instead of sleeping. When Angel slept, all the lines in his face smoothed out and he looked so…so…well…never mind. And once in a great while, in his sleep, he smiled; a genuine smile that Spike hadn't seen in an age.

When Angel was brooding, his great granite forehead scrunched up and the skin around his eyes tightened as if he was in pain; just like they were now. Probably wondering what the hell they were going to do next or trying to think up some way they could get money that wouldn't involve theft or a mugging. They could siphon gas from cars at the motel across the way but blood was a different matter entirely. You could only drain so many animals in an area before all the wildlife started to stay away and they couldn't _buy_ blood if they didn't have money.

They were probably going to starve after all. It would be just his luck, wouldn't it? Sunnydale had to have had some sort of curse on it, besides the whole Hellmouth thing. From the moment he had stepped foot in it, Spike was stuck like he'd walked right into quicksand- the more you move, the faster you sink.

He'd gotten stuck with a wheelchair, an insane Grandsire, a pissed off Drusilla, and a chip. He'd been stuck in lust with an enemy and then in love with same. He'd stuck himself with the bleedin' soul. He'd been a prisoner, insane, a secret weapon for evil, a secret weapon for good, a pillar of fire, a ghost, and almost sucked into Hell. He'd had his arms chopped off and was nearly killed by a horde of demons. Now he was stuck out in the arsehole of Nevada and playing house in a trashed out gas station, with Peaches of all people. And he could trace it all back to good ol' Sunnyhell. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

"Oi, Peaches." Still nothing. Why did Angel even bother? He knew Spike wouldn't give up. It wasn't like they hadn't done this every day for almost a week. Angel would lie down and brood and Spike would talk to him until Angel cursed at him and then Angel would try to sleep _or_ Angel would lie down and brood and Spike would talk to him until Angel _didn't_ curse at him and then they would both try to sleep. Angel never slept but for minutes at a time and that only while Spike was talking to him. Did Angel honestly think Spike didn't know what was going on here?

"Angel." Jab Angel in the side with a sharp, bony elbow. "What do you think _really_ killed the dinosaurs? I think it was a spell. Some sort of demon mojo." There was more than one way to skin a cat and Spike knew_ every_ way to skin this particular one.

"Spike, stop it… and shut up." Bingo. Angel didn't open his eyes but Spike knew he was listening. He could almost feel all Angel's muscles relax.

"You don't think so?" Spike didn't really think so either but it would get the Soulful Wonder to stop brooding.

What on the green earth did Angel have to brood over so much? And right, there was the whole couple of centuries of guilt about his evil and murderous past and then seeing most of his friends die but…him and Angel, they were vampires. Vampires feed on humans, it was what they _did_. Course, not so many took quite the pleasure in it that Angelus had, but there was no use whinging about it all the time. That way lay madness and uselessness. Spike should know; he'd done a spot of it himself once. Hadn't solved anything, had it? A small spot of self pity every once in a while and that would do you just fine in Spike's opinion. And as for the other, well, all humans had a shelf life. Sooner or later, _everyone_ they knew would die while they just lived on and on; baring rampaging demon hordes and starvation, that is. Least their fallen friends got to go out fighting the good fight.

"Demons did not kill the dinosaurs." It wouldn't be too much longer and Spike would have him breathing again. Angel hated that, tried never to do it. Too much like a disguise if he went around breathing all the time, wasn't it? Sometimes Angel was a right idiot.

"How do you know? Weren't there, were you? I think it was a spell." And there it was- one deep, calming breath. Angel wasn't thinking about anything now except Spike and, maybe, how many ways Angel could get his hands on him; and you could take that any which way you wanted to. Good. It was the way it should be.

"There is no way a spell killed all the dinosaurs." The blankets shifted and he could feel Angel looking at him. Don't look back. Keep staring at the ceiling; he'd give the game away otherwise.

"Didn't kill all of them. Wouldn't have birds or sharks or alligators if they'd killed them all. You should watch the Discovery channel, mate; might learn something. Brilliant TV that is. No, they just killed the big ones." Actually, that wasn't a bad theory. Now he was wondering if that was even possible.

"Spike, that's not even possible. No demon would have that kind of magic." Hah! Angel was trying to use logic on him and that annoying 'I am the voice of reason and authority' tone, the prat. He should know by now that that _never_ worked. Not on Spike. Spike knows all Angel's hiddens. Can't use that tone on someone who knows all your dirties and had a front row seat for most of them.

"A bunch of them would. Maybe a hell god would; nasty little buggers, those are. Went up against a hell god myself once." And that should be a bad memory, shouldn't it? But that was the first time she had kissed him. Well, the first time she had done it of her own volition. Wonder what she was doing now? Best not to think of that. He didn't want to start brooding again. He'd leave that to Peaches.

"That's ridiculous. Why would demons, or a hell god, want to kill the dinosaurs?" Angel was actually thinking about it now, wasn't he? Nothing in that great, bloated head but whatever stupid thing Spike was pestering him with now. No thinking on lost friends or far away lovers. No worrying about the Horde at their backs or if they were going to start starving to death again. Nothing in his head at all except Spike.

"Don't know. I wasn't there. You have to admit something killed them, though." And now Angel has rolled over onto his side. Spike could feel the weight of those serious brown eyes, only inches away, just daring him to look back. Not yet though, not just yet. "Come to think of it, who says they were really dinosaurs?"

"It's all the years of peroxide soaking into your head, it's damaged all your brain cells; what little you had. Of course they were dinosaurs, that's why people call them 'dinosaurs.' I don't think hundreds of archeologists and science labs around the world would mistake old chicken bones for giant pre-historic lizards." How the hell would Angel survive without Spike to keep him out of his own head? How the hell would Spike survive without someone to look after? Granted Angel was no Drusilla, or Buffy, or even Dawn when it came right down to it, but Angel still needed looking after. Spike was good at that. Maybe the only thing he really _was_ good at.

"They could just as well have been some species of demon. Big fight over who ruled the earth, some group of gits lets loose with the big spell, and next thing they know they're all petrol and environmental hazards." He couldn't resist it anymore. Spike had to see the expression on his face.

Oh God, that's just priceless! Spike couldn't stop himself from smirking and, damn it, so what if he was giving Angel that stupid idiotic look? Couldn't help himself when the poof was looking back at him like that, could he?

They might still be caught by the Horde and die in screaming agony and they might still eventually starve to death, but they weren't right now. Right now they were arguing about silly things that wouldn't do a damned thing to get them out of the situation they were in. And weren't those the most precious moments? The ones that don't seem to really count until you look back on them later and say, "That was when the tide turned. That was when it all came together."

Spike was one step away from sodding bad poetry, wasn't he? Just one little step. Would it be so bad to take it? Would it be so bad to admit that while their relationship was complicated, and half the time they couldn't even stand to look at each other, they did have one. Maybe neither wanted to acknowledge it right out, but it was there. And, with no buffers between them anymore, it was only getting stronger.

"Spike, you're an idiot." But those velvet eyes were sparkling now, weren't they, even as his eyelids slid closed? And there was a twitching at the corners of Angel's mouth that was trying hard not to be a sleepy smile.

In a few minutes, Angel would finally give up his damned unnecessary deathwatch and fall asleep to the sound of Spike talking about anything and everything he could think of. As long as Spike was talking, Angel would sleep. As long as Spike was talking, Angel's world would narrow and there would be no past to be reminded of and no future to worry about. As long as Spike was talking, Angel's dreams would be free of death and pain and he could finally lay down his burdens and rest.

Sometimes you spend so long looking at trees that you eventually only see forests; mountain out of a mole hill kind of a thing. Angel always did that. He never learned to take life as it came. Spike could take it, and what he couldn't take he changed, that was why Spike was the strong one. Angel wouldn't survive on his own. Maybe he could have once but that time was long past.

And Spike had just talked himself into staying with the great poof, hadn't he? Well…that was a bit of alright. Home _is_ where the heart is after all; even if it's in a hulking git sleeping next to you in an abandoned gas station in a godforsaken bit of Nevada. Besides, Spike just couldn't resist sticking around to see how it all ended.

ooo


End file.
